The dry, sharp stalks of the plant ripped through his blistered fingers; Aeron let go and cursed. An hour ago this foe would have already been shoved in his bag and he would have moved onto the next victim, but it was not so when his arms were complaining, his hand was bleeding and his stomach was growling for attention. The plant would not give way. He didn't even know its name, and at the moment neither did he care.
His right hand had an uneven scratch from the base to the tip of his second finger. It was not deep, but it was beading blood and itching. His left hand clenched the blade he had been using to saw away at the base of the plant ever tighter, and it was all he could do to refrain from kicking at the plant like a madman. Wonderful. This was all he needed. He wanted to hit something.
Attis had sent a storm on the way - the sailors had made sure to spread the word - and everyone along the coast was boarding their windows, gathering extra water and other things of a similar sane nature. And what was Aeron doing? Hacking away murderously at a plant on a lone outcropping of rock hardly a hundred paces from the very ocean that was already nipping at his heels.
Trees were sparse in these stony, sandy, ocean-claimed lands, thus its inhabitants found firewood in what they could. In Aeron's case, it was the thick, woody and seemingly purposeless stalks that grew sporadically from rock crevices. He'd gathered enough fuel for himself already, judging by the weight of the coarse cloth bag he carried at his elbow, but now he had a sister and a sickly neighbor to care for and he didn't want to risk going cold in the midst of the storm. It was most probable they would survive even without a fire, but the prospect was certainly unpleasant.
Aeron bent again with a remarkable display of patience and self control, and began sawing away at the base of the plant with his left hand while pulling and twisting with his right. The wind was picking up - more than usual, at least - and the usual dull murmur of the ocean rose to a significantly more ominous complaining. It was never good to get caught on the coast during one of Attis's temper tantrums, and he knew he was pushing his safety here. He hoped it wouldn't be too late.
"Aeron, there you are!"
Aeron turned to see his sister, his junior by twelve years, stepping gingerly across the stones towards him. She gripped a grey shawl about her shoulders, and a navy-blue dress whipped about her ankles. The face always so calm and complacent was frowning against the wind, nose and cheeks reddened and brown eyes concerned. Her lips were chapped, but then so was his; her skin was sucked tight against her cheeks and high forehead wrinkled in urgency. Rhiannon always looked years younger than she was - childlike, almost - but now she looked years older.
"What are you doing here? I thought I told you to stay home with Mamick."
Aeron said this as he gave the plant a final yank; it thankfully came free, and he hurriedly stuffed it inside the bag along with the other unfortunate foliage. Aeron looked a great deal more Tinellian than his sister; he was tall, with a long jaw and nose, sunken blue eyes, and a great bushy mass of white-blond hair topping his head - as opposed to his sister's long dark-brown braid. Although he was certainly no longer young, and certainly not yet old, he carried none of the mass that seemed to accumulate with age; his shoulders were not quite large enough to be considered "broad"; his build not quite sturdy enough to be considered strong. He wore clothing similar to his sister; coarse grey trousers and a brown shirt, although he had a rabbit-skin coat instead of a cotton one.
"The storm's almost here. You should come back." Rhia replied, ignoring his previous statement.
"I told you not to worry about me."
"Your current situation is worth worrying about."
"That's none of your concern." Aeron said.
"It is now. Come back."
Aeron grumbled something to himself about stubborn women and cautiously picked his way across the rocks, ignoring the fact he looked something like an awkward spider while doing so. Forget dignity - a damaged ankle would be much worse in this state. The sky was already growing darker, the wind stronger, the ocean more restless. Attis didn't seem to be happy at all. In fact, Aeron would go so far as to say downright riled.
They'd better hurry.
Author's Note:If enough enjoy this story, I have more to follow it up. And as a note of clarification, to those who did not understand, Attis is the mind behind the sea.
